Welcome Home, Harry
by r4ven3
Summary: It's one shot time again! This one is set ten years after the end of S10, in an AU universe. I think it's uplifting, but I'm no judge of my own writing. I rated it T to be on the safe side, given the subject matter is a bit "out there".


Sunday October 17, 2021:

"You look a tad peaky, Harry," his ex-wife says, watching him closely. "Are you unwell?"

"No. Just a bit tired."

During the past nine years they have had to attend two weddings, three christenings, and several funerals, the sum of which has helped to heal the wound which had gaped, oozing and bloody since their divorce. It hadn't been easy, but it had been necessary, and Harry finds that he now enjoys Jane's company more than he ever had while they were married. They no longer have to go home together, or bring up young children together. Strangely, since the births of their three grandchildren, they have rediscovered the friendship which had first attracted them to one another all those years ago. It is just the love which has died forever, never to be rekindled.

"You can't possibly be tired," she says quietly, knowing that since leaving the intelligence service, Harry does nothing more strenuous than pull weeds and push a lawnmower through the grass at that cottage he'd bought a few years before he'd retired. He also takes long walks, but he doesn't talk about that to anyone. It is during his walks that he feels Ruth with him.

"Today is ... a stressful one for me," he says, turning to give her eye contact. "Someone died on this day ... ten years ago."

With one eyebrow lifted, Jane dives in, and Harry wonders why he'd thought confiding in her was a good idea. "One of your spooks?" Harry nods, turning to gaze across the garden to where Martha, their newest grandchild, and the birthday girl, having missed her midday sleep, is throwing a loud tantrum. "But you lost so many. What was different about this one?"

He turns back to Jane, to see her watching him, genuine concern in her clear grey eyes. They only have each other now, Jane having announced several years ago that she is `finished with men', and he still being in love with the memory of a dead woman. Although they are friends, they are not close, and will never again be lovers. Perhaps, Harry thinks, they are allies; he could do with an ally. "This one was different."

Jane's eyes widen in understanding. "You mean ... the woman whose cottage you bought. What was her name again?"

"Ruth. Her name was Ruth." Saying her name aloud is no longer painful for Harry. He enjoys hearing the sound of her name as it tumbles easily from his lips. Speaking her name aloud to others makes her life real, along with her death.

"And you still love her ... after all this time."

Harry waits for Jane to lift her eyebrow, but her astute observation, from someone who knows him well, is respectful. "It's not so long," he says, his eyes still on Martha, who is sitting on the floor of the patio, refusing to move, while Graham and Holly try bribing her with cake.

"Ten years is rather a long time."

"Ten years is but a blink of an eye," he replies quickly. "How old are we again?"

"Don't go there, Harry. I tell everyone I'm nearly sixty, and they say I look no more than fifty. That's good enough for me."

Harry shakes his head and smiles. She really is a vain woman. Like him, she is almost sixty-eight, which is hardly old, not in the twenty-first century, when forty is the new thirty, which must mean that seventy is the new sixty.

Jane has never visited his cottage in Suffolk, the one Ruth was about to buy just before she'd died. Both Catherine and Graham have visited, examining closely the photographs of Ruth he has on display in the living room, and the kitchen, although his favourite image of her is upstairs, on his bedside table. On her first visit to his Suffolk cottage, Catherine had pumped him for information about the pretty woman in the photographs, but he'd resisted, answering in monosyllables, until she'd given up. Even after ten years, he rarely mentions her. She was his secret love, and in death, she remains his secret, and his alone.

"Gan, Poppy," a small voice says, from just outside the summer house at the end of Jane's garden, "Mummy says you should come and join the party."

Both Jane and Harry turn to smile at Toby, who at seven, is Catherine's son, and the oldest of their grandchildren. "Poppy and I are having a conversation, Toby. We'll join in when we're ready," Jane's smile to the child is sweet, although Harry recognises the hidden message in her words.

"Dad says he needs to talk to Poppy," the child continues, standing right in the doorway, his blond curls falling over his forehead. Harry and Jane agree that Toby is so very like Catherine at the same age, while his sister, Alyssa, resembles her father, with her wavy brown hair, and pale blue eyes.

"I'll be there in a little while, Tobes," Harry says wearily. He's never enjoyed being told what to do, especially in a message relayed from his son-in-law by his grandson.

The child soon runs to join his parents and younger sister, while Jane and Harry remain sitting in the summer house, out of sight of the others. The baby, Martha, has forgotten why she was so upset in the first place, and is toddling around on the patio, being adorable.

"I wonder what he wants," Jane muses.

"He'll be after me to help paint their family room," Harry replies flatly. Normally he'd enjoy the distraction of a couple of days spent at Catherine's and Andrew's, but he feels unnaturally tired ... tired and worn out.

"No doubt you'll end up painting the whole thing," Jane says. "You need to put your foot down now, or he'll never let up."

"I offered just before summer, but I no longer feel like it."

Jane stares at him, examining him more closely. "You really are sick, aren't you?"

"I'm not sick, no. I just feel ... different."

"Whatever does that mean?"

Harry has no answer to that, or none that he can offer her. Something strange is happening, and given he can't explain it, he's not about to open up about it to Jane.

"I think Martha needs her Gan," Jane says, standing and straightening her jacket. "Coming?"

Harry shakes his head. He might head home. At least, in the cottage Ruth had chosen for them both he feels at home, and there are no small children throwing tantrums, and no-one nagging him to do jobs he'd rather avoid.

* * *

Harry arrives home just after nightfall. He enters the kitchen, turning on the light before he opens the fridge door. He leans in, taking the carton of dozen eggs from the bottom shelf, and as he stands, he's aware that something in the room has changed. Someone is standing behind him. He can _feel_ her ... and smell her. It is her perfume in his nostrils, a scent he will never forget.

"Ruth?" he says, turning to look behind him, but there is no-one there, and as soon as he speaks her name the scent of her disappears.

Harry sighs, taking the eggs to the cooker, where he cracks three into a pan, adding them to the two rashers of bacon. He wonders is there something wrong with him. He daren't mention it to anyone. He imagines how Jane would react were he to confide in her. She'd laugh, and then, seeing that he's serious, she'd suggest he `see someone'. "That's just not normal, Harry," she'd say. Harry is well aware it's not normal, but he doesn't want it to stop, these encounters with his memory of Ruth. While she visits him, even if it's only occurring in his imagination, just for a moment he can believe that she has come back to him.

It had been around three weeks ago that she'd first `appeared'. He'd been in the shower, applying shampoo to his hair, when a shadow the shape of a woman's body had passed across the other side of the shower screen. He'd flung open the door, but there had been nothing there, nothing other than the smell of a woman's perfume. He'd only ever smelled that perfume on one woman, and that woman had been dead ten years.

There had been other appearances by Ruth, or what he'd come to hope and believe was Ruth. He'd taken a long walk one day, and when he'd been climbing the rise towards home, he'd heard the words, `It's not long now,' spoken in Ruth's voice. When, exhausted from the walk, he'd unlocked his front door, he'd heard her say, `Welcome home, Harry.' It had been Ruth's voice, he was sure of it. He would never, could never forget the sound of her voice.

Having visited the cottage in the days after Ruth's death, finding it still on the market a month later, he'd driven to Suffolk again, this time pausing in each room, imagining himself occupying the space, spending his weekends there. His offer had been accepted, and for the first two years after Ruth had died, most weekends had been spent furnishing and redecorating, so that by the time he'd retired, the cottage had already felt like home.

And it was his home. Apart from one thing it was the perfect retirement home for him - far from towns and cities, and just close enough to the ocean for him to walk to the beach and back before breakfast. He knows he will be spending the remainder of his life as a single man, and rather than regretting lost opportunities with Ruth, he prefers to remember what they had almost been, rather than what they had lost. All in all, he is a contented man.

So, having tidied the kitchen after his meal, he steps through to the living room, and is shocked into paralysis when he sees Ruth occupying the same armchair he sits in when he reads, or enjoys a whiskey before bedtime. He stares at her, or what looks exactly like her. She is dressed in a dark skirt with a pale blue jumper, over which she wears a blue cardigan. Her hair falls softly to her shoulders, longer than he remembers, as she watches him, a gentle smile on her lips.

Harry swallows, afraid to speak for fear she'll disappear, but he can't help the word, `Ruth', which he utters in a tone more despairing than hopeful. With the spoken word her smile widens, so he takes a few steps towards her, but with each step closer her image fades, until he reaches his chair to find nothing there. He sinks into the chair, and finding the fabric cold beneath his body, he allows a few tears of frustration to fall from his eyes, and roll down his cheeks.

"What the flaming _fuck_?" he says loudly, to the air around him, hoping that Ruth, or what has been pretending to be Ruth, can hear him, and perhaps offer some explanation for what he's just witnessed. Why visit him, sit in his chair, and then say nothing at all? It makes no sense at all. Of course, he _could_ be losing his sanity, and if that's the case, then what better way to spend his remaining days than in seeing Ruth, and hearing her voice as she whispers to him.

He looks around him, and nothing appears out of place. Surely were Ruth to really be visiting him from through the veil she'd be offering him words of comfort, like, "I'm fine here, Harry. I've been spending quality time with my father, and I've visited your parents." Or perhaps she's made amends with George. She could even have told him she misses him, although if she's capable of turning up at will, it's likely she's been watching him the whole time he's lived here. Perhaps she's been with him all along, a silent witness to his moments of deep despair.

That night before turning in he has three glasses of whiskey, just enough to hone the sharp edges of his anxiety and confusion. As he settles into bed in the bedroom he and Ruth were to have shared, he admits to himself that all he wants is to be with Ruth once more. He knows that means he welcomes death, and while he'd be sad to leave his family behind, the very prospect of spending the rest of eternity with Ruth is one he welcomes.

He has no more encounters with Ruth on that night, and just as he's on the cusp of sleep, he remembers that Catherine had promised to visit him in two weeks for his birthday. "No Andrew, and no kids," she'd said, smiling. "He has three days off, and I need him to know what it's like to look after his own children."

Harry is looking forward to her visit. Just he and his beloved daughter for two days. It will be a rare treat.

* * *

Monday 1st November 2021:

Harry turns out the light in the kitchen, and escapes to the living room, where Catherine sits in the chair opposite his, curled up in front of the open fire. She turns towards him as he enters the room. "Dad," she asks, sitting up straight, "are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Ruth's `visits' had become more frequent, and less than five minutes ago he had felt her at his back as he'd wiped down the kitchen table. As he'd stood up, her hand had rested on his back, and then he'd felt lips pressed against his neck, followed by the words, spoken in _her_ voice, "I'll always love you." He'd spun around, but there'd been nothing there, other than the familiar scent of her floral perfume as it hovered in the air.

Having settled in his chair, he picks up the glass of whiskey Catherine had poured for him, and gulps it down. "I suspect I have," he says, gently placing the glass on the small table beside his chair, before lifting his eyes to meet his daughter's.

It is then the penny drops for Catherine, as her eyes widen. " _Ruth_? Is she ... _visiting_ you?"

Harry nods, and then drops his eyes as he quickly weighs up the pros and cons of sharing his experiences with his daughter. In the end, his need to unburden wins. "It's been happening now for a month or so," he begins, before telling her about his strange visits from what seems to him to be Ruth. To her credit Catherine listens, and when he's finished his tale of Ruth's ghostly visits, he sits silently, watching as his daughter shuffles through the information. "You don't seem shocked," he observes, after they had been sitting in silence for over a minute.

"No. I'm not," Catherine replies quietly, grasping her mug of coffee between both her hands. "Did I not tell you about how Granddad had visited me when I almost lost a leg ... back in 2006?" When Harry shakes his head slowly, she continues with the story. "Your father had only been dead a couple of years when I was injured. I'd been told I needed a blood transfusion, and they had contacted Mum. It was one night when I couldn't sleep that Granddad appeared at the foot of my bed. He just stared at me, and because I was doped up on pain meds, I thought I was hallucinating. When he began talking to me, I just listened. He said you were about to board a flight to join me ... to donate blood which would save me. I can remember asking him how he knew that, and that you would never leave work to help me." Catherine's eyes dart up to meet Harry's, and seeing the hurt in his eyes, she again drops her gaze to the fire. "He told me that you loved me very much, and you'd move heaven and earth to help me." She takes a quick sip of her coffee, while all Harry can do is watch and listen. "Next thing I remember you were there, and I was being wheeled into theatre." Again she lifts her eyes to Harry's. "Have I never told you that?"

Harry shakes his head slowly. "Never," he says quietly. "So ... if Granddad assured you about me coming to your rescue ... what do you suppose Ruth is telling me?"

"What is the theme of what she's saying?"

Harry watches the fire for a long time, putting together all the messages he has received from Ruth's ghostly presence in his house. "The ... theme seems to be that she loves me."

"Well ..." Catherine says the word in much the same tone as her mother, "that's a good thing, surely."

"Both messages - from Granddad to you, and Ruth to me - appear to be messages of reassurance, and of ... love."

They drop the subject, moving on to other topics. Feeling suddenly tired, Harry excuses himself, and heads upstairs to bed. It is only nine o'clock, and Catherine is only spending one night with him, but he feels bone-tired, and in need of sleep. Turning off the bedside light, he turns on his side, and closes his eyes. Sleep comes quickly.

* * *

Downstairs, Catherine makes herself a fresh mug of coffee and takes it into the living room, and once settled in her chair, she makes a phone call.

"What's wrong?" her mother says as a greeting. "Is it Harry?"

Catherine hesitates. "No, not really. He went to bed at nine. Don't you think that's a trifle .. odd?"

"Maybe, but he'll be up with the sparrows, so you might want to turn in soon. I thought he looked peaky at Martha's birthday. Didn't you?"

"No. He looked normal to me."

Having talked enough about Harry, Jane changes the subject. "You missed out on a girls' night."

"You know I can't abide your friends, Mum."

"I'm babysitting Martha, while Graham and Holly have some _adult_ time."

"Thanks for that image."

"And then Andrew brought over Alyssa for the night, so it's just me and my two granddaughters."

"Andrew was meant to be looking after both our children, Mum."

"I know, but most men haven't a clue what to do with their children, so I suggested he -"

" _Mum_! I wanted him to figure out how to deal with our two kids on his own. What if I were to die?"

"Why? Are you sick?"

"No, but you never know."

"This is a terrible topic of conversation, Catherine. Hello? ... I think I heard Martha. I have to go." And Jane quickly hangs up. Catherine hadn't heard a thing, and she suspects that her mother is having a few wines on the quiet, while her two small granddaughters sleep.

She grabs Harry's glass and her mug, and takes them into the kitchen, where she stands at the sink, waiting for a visit of the spectral kind. She stands quietly in the half dark, listening for something, anything, but there is nothing. Perhaps Ruth's visits, her messages of love, are for her father only.

* * *

Harry wakes suddenly, glancing at his bedside clock to see that it is 4:12 am. He'd again felt a presence, but despite seeing nothing as he looks around the dark room, he knows Ruth is near. He can't see her, or hear her, or even smell the scent of her perfume, but he senses her, her calming, reassuring, loving presence. He sits up suddenly, and that's when it hits him. A sudden sharp pain in his chest has him doubling over. He attempts to cry out, but he can't speak. The pain is him, and he is the pain. It is everywhere, like a vice on his chest, squeezing the life out of him.

Harry knows he's having a heart attack. If he could make enough noise to wake Catherine, then maybe ...

He manages to turn himself towards the edge of the bed before everything goes black.

* * *

The first thing Harry notices is that he is standing over his own body, which is lying untidily on the floor beside his bed. The next thing he notices is that the pain has gone, and he feels better than he has in years. He is energised, and happy, and is aware of so much love surrounding him.

Then he hears a familiar voice from the foot of the bed. "Welcome home, Harry," she says. "I've been waiting for you."

Looking up, Harry sees Ruth. She is now standing closer, reaching out to him. He grasps her hand, and to his joy, Ruth doesn't disappear. He steps towards her, and when she opens her arms to him, he steps into her embrace.

"You've been preparing me for this, haven't you?" he asks, his mouth close to her ear. He twitches his nose as her hair tickles him. He smiles, pulling away a little to look into the eyes which he'd believed had closed forever.

Ruth nods. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you outright, but ... I'm your welcoming party. Welcome home, Harry. I've been waiting for you."

"You cannot imagine how much I've missed you."

"I think I can," she says, smiling into his eyes. "We have to go soon."

"Go?"

"Move on. We shouldn't hang around here, haunting your daughter." Ruth lifts her eyebrows in fun. He had so loved a playful Ruth.

"Do we get to ... stay together?" he asks hopefully.

"If we wish, yes."

"I wish."

Ruth grins. "So do I." She looks behind Harry to where Catherine, having been woken by Harry's body hitting the floor, is kneeling beside him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she frantically applies CPR. "We'd better go," she says, grasping Harry's hand.

"Can I just ...?" he asks, and Ruth nods. He steps towards his daughter, and reaches out to place a ghostly kiss on her cheek. He watches as she stops what she's doing, and lifts her hand to her cheek, warily looking around the room. "I love you, sweetheart," Harry whispers, close to her ear, and then tears of grief begin to roll down her cheeks, and she drops her face into her hands.

"We must go, Harry," Ruth says, and he nods, again taking Ruth's hand.

"Will she be all right with ... the body?"

Ruth nods, leading him away from the cottage she'd planned to share with him, which she had, but not in the way they'd expected. "The right people will turn up to help her."

"You've already arranged that?" he asks, admiring her superior organisational skills.

Ruth nods. "It had all been ... pre-ordered."

"Including my rather inglorious death?"

"I thought the falling out of bed part rather ... fitting."

"Fitting? It's embarrassing, and how can my daughter move my hulking dead weight on her own?"

"She'll call for help. She won't have to face this alone."

Harry's face softens. "Are we arguing?" he asks.

"It's what we do, Harry, but we have an endless amount of time to work on that. We have all of eternity to spend together." she says.

 _That is by far the best part_ , he thinks, knowing that in this spectral realm, Ruth can read his thoughts. When she smiles into his eyes his suspicions are confirmed. They have a whole afterlife in which to read one another's thoughts. Harry grasps her hand tighter, thinking: _I will go wherever you go._

Ruth squeezes back, saying aloud, "You'd better."

 _Fin_


End file.
